


the list

by prettyweeper



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15857595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyweeper/pseuds/prettyweeper
Summary: Harry wants to make one thing clear: he didn't intend to start the list.





	the list

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [la liste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18725110) by [clarocque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarocque/pseuds/clarocque)



> fair warning: this is about 50% fluff and 50% character study. there’s pretty much no plot whatsoever. any and all errors are my own, and i’m sure there are roughly eight thousand of them, but enjoy anyway!

* * *

 

Harry wants to make one thing clear: he didn’t intend to start the list.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

Malfoy sleeps curled in on himself. Harry notices this the first night. Malfoy doesn’t say good night, just jumps into bed before anyone can talk to him. He pulls the covers up over his shoulders, even though it’s a warm September night in the newly renovated eighth-year tower.

His knees are pulled up to his chest and his hands rest by his face, curled loosely. It’s an oddly vulnerable position, child-like, incongruent with the proud, haughty exterior he tries to project. Harry wonders if he’s always slept this way, or if it’s a new development. He remembers the way Malfoy’s shoulders shook during his trial, the way his whole body trembled, pressed against Harry’s when they flew out of the Fiendfyre.

He revises his first thought: in truth, it makes sense that Malfoy would sleep this way, as though trying to protect himself from the world. He watches the dim outline of Malfoy’s hunched shoulders across the room long after everyone else falls asleep.

The last thought in Harry’s mind before sleep finds him is whether Malfoy has nightmares too, whether they keep him awake like they keep Harry awake.

In the morning, the way Malfoy sleeps becomes the first thing on the list. Harry jots it down on a blank piece of parchment absentmindedly. At the time, it just makes sense. It’s the only way he can think of to cope with being back at Hogwarts after the previous year, with Malfoy and not Ron in the opposite bed. At least Harry’s still got Neville, even if he does snore like a jet engine.

Things were so much easier when Malfoy was only glares and sneers and insults, and not just a boy—a _person_ , infinitely complex—sleeping ten feet away and murmuring into his pillow.  

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

Malfoy takes early showers, so early that he’s usually dressed, his veneer perfected, before Harry even wakes. He doesn’t use a drying charm on his hair, and it curls a bit when it’s still damp. Wet, its colour is more dirty blond than platinum. He likes his showers so hot that his fair skin is pink when he emerges, lemon-scented air following him.

He ties his tie the same way every morning: over, up, down, across, then about six more steps that get Harry hopelessly lost and envious. (His own tie is lucky if it gets more than the simplest knot in it.)

Malfoy has about ten different pairs of robes, and each one of them is exactly the same as the others, but he takes twenty minutes to decide which one he wants anyway. Harry has a passing suspicion that he picks the exact same robe every time, but he can’t tell the difference.

As for shoes, Malfoy has a pair of polished, black Oxfords, a little more heel than necessary. They probably cost more galleons than all the clothes in Harry’s trunk combined. Every time Malfoy puts them on, he scowls disapprovingly at Harry’s ratty trainers as though personally offended.

Other than the brief, awkward moments when they run into each other in the showers, Harry never sees the Dark Mark. He knows it’s there, lurking under Malfoy’s shirtsleeves, and he wants to acknowledge it at least, tell Malfoy that _yeah, you were a Death Eater, but you can be so much more, a stupid mark on your arm doesn’t have to define you_. But he’s not going to bring it up when Malfoy goes to such lengths to make sure it never shows; Malfoy even sleeps in long-sleeved shirts. If he doesn’t get into bed right away, he spends the entire time tugging nervously at his left sleeve.

Speaking of pyjamas, Malfoy has three pairs of bottoms. One is black, one is grey, and the third—oh, the third. It’s light blue with enchanted little clouds that puff merrily around his legs. Occasionally, one will go dark and shoot a little bolt of lightning.

The first time Malfoy wears them, Terry Boot laughs so hard he can’t breathe. Malfoy’s cheeks go pink, and the tips of his ears. “They’re from my mother,” he snarls, and leaps into bed without another word. He certainly doesn’t acknowledge Harry’s quiet, “I like them.”

Harry doesn’t sleep well that night. He rolls and tosses, and finally climbs out of bed around two in the morning. _Wears cute pyjamas because they were a gift from his mum_ becomes number twenty-two on the list.

It makes his head hurt. From enemies to— _this_ . There’s so much history, it feels as though the gap between their beds is a chasm, a thousand miles wide and twice as deep. If he tries to bridge it, will he fall? He can picture Malfoy standing on the other side, cutting the ropes. _Sorry, Potter, you had your chance seven years ago._

It’s easier to make a list.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

Malfoy butters his toast from left to right. Once he reaches the right side, he picks his knife up and starts again from the left, so the right side of his bread has too much butter, and the left has almost none. He eats the left first, and his bite mark is perfect, not a tooth out of place.

He takes his tea with too much milk and no sugar, and always stirs it with a charm, because apparently it tastes better that way. Sometimes he has coffee, but he grimaces the entire time he drinks it. Every dinner time, without fail, he drinks pumpkin juice.

Malfoy seems to hate pies and cakes, but he loves chocolate, dark chocolate especially. His mother sends them to him in the mail, even now. His absolute favourites are the ones with caramel in the middle, and his least favourite is white chocolate, which he hands off to whoever’s sitting nearby. In one notable case, this is Harry.

When Harry looks down at the chocolate Malfoy’s dumped on his plate, he does that half-blushing thing again, clearly embarrassed. “You’re too thin,” Malfoy sniffs, going back to sorting out his chocolates, pretending it didn’t happen.

(He sends his mother thank-you notes, and writes to her every other day. He does this at night, after he’s completed his classwork.) (He never writes his father.)

But, far beyond everything else, Malfoy loves crêpes. If he knows they’re serving them, he’ll get to breakfast early and take practically all of them. One day he’s late, and they’re all gone by the time he gets there. The look on his face—like there was one thing he was looking forward to, and it was ripped away. Which is, perhaps, true; Malfoy spends most of his time alone, scurrying between classes like he’s trying not to be noticed, never raising his hand in classes, even when he obviously knows the answer.

If he talks to anyone besides the odd sentence, Harry doesn’t see it.

Malfoy slides into his seat, and Harry pushes a plate full of crêpes over when Ron and Hermione are busy staring at each other. It had been easy enough to grab a few, even if he had pretended at first that he’d wanted them for himself. Malfoy’s face is a mixture of bewilderment, suspicion, and pure, unparalleled joy. Harry shrugs his shoulders at the obvious question and goes back to his eggs.

From then on, things get easier.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

Malfoy studies on his bed. He sits cross-legged, elbows on his knees, hunched over whatever book he’s reading. It looks as though it’d hurt his back, but he never seems bothered. If he’s really concentrating, he bites his bottom lip. If he’s confused, he’ll push a hand through his hair until it sticks straight up. If he doesn’t plan on leaving the room again, he’ll take his shoes and socks off and pad around barefoot.

He’s brilliant at Potions and horrible at Herbology. Defence Against the Dark Arts, while one of his best subjects, makes him nervous nowadays. He likes Astronomy, and thinks Divination is a load of rubbish. As it turns out, he’s not naturally good because he’s a pureblood, but that he studies for hours every night, and has notes that almost equal Hermione’s.

Harry’s always been the kind of person to study in the common room, surrounded by friends and only half-focusing on his work. He still does, sometimes, but now he finds himself sneaking up to his room and working there. It’s quiet and peaceful. By mid-October, he and Malfoy work in companionable silence. The sound of quill on parchment is soothing.

Early November, Harry is struggling with a Potions essay when Malfoy takes him by surprise. “Want help?” he asks quietly, and Harry can’t find a trace of mockery, even though he looks hard.

“Yeah,” Harry says, relieved, and he learns that seven years of hatred can be eclipsed by an essay on the uses of newts’ eyes and a little effort.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

Malfoy likes to pass notes during class. They’re mainly full of complaints and insult just about everyone in eyesight, which Harry’s come to realise is more Malfoy’s way of joking rather than actual vitriol. Sometimes, Malfoy will add a little doodle of something. His drawings are absolutely awful; Harry saves every one.

He refuses to admit he has a problem.

Malfoy, somehow, never manages to get caught passing a note, but Harry gets caught passing one to him quite often. Of course, Harry always ends up getting scolded because Malfoy will profusely insist that he is nothing more than an unwilling victim.

In the background, Ron and Hermione begin exchanging looks, and Harry ignores them.

Harry’s list, while still populated by frequent actual entries—182. Malfoy has one freckle, just one, and it’s on the back of his right calf; and 206. Malfoy’s favourite book is Alice in Wonderland, because his father would absolutely hate it—now features entries such as: 200. Malfoy is a git.

It’s much easier to find out useless information about Malfoy when they sit beside each other in classes and hang out in the evenings. The day they spend in Hogsmeade gives Harry more information for The List (now capitalised—it is longer than anything Harry’s ever written before) than the past two weeks did.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

That’s not to say that it’s easy being Malfoy’s friend. He tends to get insulted over perceived slights, real or not. He’s frequently self-conscious, and prone to jealousy, even though—or because—he’s been Harry’s friend the shortest. When he’s upset, he lashes out. He’ll go whole days without talking to Harry, without even acknowledging him, then he’ll crawl back, pretending that things are fine because he’s terrified that he’s ruined it.

His hands shake when he’s scared. They flutter like birds, and Harry wants to pin them down, hold them until they still. He doesn’t of course; he just smiles at Malfoy and lets things go back to their new normal. No is perfect, and Malfoy’s been getting better.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

There is a difference between knowing someone and _knowing_ someone. There is a long, long way to go before Harry gets anywhere near knowing Malfoy as well as he does Ron and Hermione, or Neville, even, but he thinks he’s getting there.

There are a thousand different versions of Malfoy’s smirk in Harry’s head, but the first real smile Draco graces him with will always stand above the rest. It’s a sudden thing, lovely, and Harry feels as though he’s holding something fragile in his hands, and knows he would do anything to keep from breaking it.

Draco’s real smile curves gently on both sides, and a dimple half-forms on one of his cheeks. His eyes crinkle in the corners, and his cheeks go pink, as though he smiles so rarely that he’s embarrassed to do it.

It’s over some stupid joke Harry told, and Harry can’t stop thinking about what he can do to make come back.

It takes until right before Christmas break to coax Malfoy’s real laugh out of him, and when it comes, it’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever heard. It’s bright and clear and the loudest noise Malfoy’s made all year. It replays in Harry’s head all night, and he can’t stop thinking about how, even though he’s only heard it once, he’ll miss it—he’ll miss _Malfoy_ —when he’s away.

Harry has learned hundreds of things about Draco this year, but they’re suddenly eclipsed by the one thing he’s just learned about himself: he’s utterly, completely, hopelessly in love, and he’s not sure when he got that way.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

No one else can say the word “Potter” in as many ways as Malfoy does. When they get back in January, it’s inflected with pleasure and relief. When Harry does something stupid, it’s—more recently, at least—exasperated and amused. When Harry gives him a new pair of embarrassing pyjama pants for Christmas, it’s horrified. (He wears them anyway.)

But Harry wonders how it would sound, half-moan, half-plea, rough and low: _Potter_ . He can almost picture the way Draco would _look_ , his hair mussed up, his pupils blown wide, almost covering the grey rings of his irises, those long, thin fingers wrapped around—

Harry tries not to think about it too much.

One night, Malfoy confesses that Harry is the only person he’s ever considered a friend. “Sometimes, I thought—Crabbe and Goyle, maybe, but look how that turned out.” He buries his face into his shoulder, a pillow, whenever he says something real. “They turned on me in the end. Goyle hasn’t talked to me since that night.” He makes a wounded noise in his throat.

“I’ll always be here,” Harry promises, voice low. How easy it would be, to roll over and kiss Draco, show him that he means it. He doesn’t; he won’t ruin this. He’ll take what he can get, and he’ll be grateful, damn it.

“Don’t say things like that, Potter,” Draco says, but Harry can tell that he’s excessively pleased. He _smiles_.

But while Harry kind of loves the way Draco says “Potter”, he thinks that it might be even better to be called “Harry.” Sometime over the past month, he’s nearly stopped calling Draco by his last name entirely. (He still does it occasionally, when Draco does something irritating, or when he’s feeling nostalgic.)

Although Draco’s accepted Harry’s new way of calling him with grace, he steadfastly refuses to call him anything but Potter. There is only one person that Draco calls by their first name, and it’s Pansy Parkinson, even though she went to Beauxbatons this year and they only seem to exchange letters every other month.

Everyone else is either referred to by their last name or some sort of cruel nickname. Although Draco has stopped calling them that to their faces. Harry will take the little things.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

Draco loves the snow. He doesn’t seem to feel the cold, which probably served him well, living in the dungeon for six years. Frequently, he goes out for walks in the winter, bundled up in layers, a Slytherin-green scarf wrapped around his neck. His eyelashes are long enough that the snow catches in them, and the tip of his nose goes a bit pink.

Draco likes rain and clouds, and always seems a bit annoyed by the sun, because he burns easily and he hates to sweat. It makes Harry laugh, because isn’t it so _Draco_ to be annoyed at basic body functions. (On that note, Draco absolutely despises sneezing.)

The hotter it is, the worse of a mood Draco is in, although he doesn’t seem to mind it so much when he’s playing Quidditch. They both miss playing during the winter, but Draco is content with watching it snow and—when no one is watching—roping Harry into making snowmen.

 

⨯⨯⨯

 

By April, Harry’s almost certain that he knows every expression Draco has. Long familiar with anger and scorn and hatred, he finds that he much prefers happiness and contentment and amusement. He knows the way Draco always raises his left eyebrow, never his right, and the way his eyes get red and his nose scrunches up if he’s near tears. But right now, Harry can’t tell what Draco’s feeling.

He knows every lilt of Draco’s voice. When he’s excited, the last syllables of his sentences go up, and when he’s sad they go down. When he’s feeling anxious, everything he says sounds like a question. If he’s angry, every word is clipped and sharp. He uses the word ‘honestly’ more than any other. But Harry’s never heard Draco sound like this.

“What is this?”

Draco’s face is incredibly blank, and his words are all empty. They drop from his mouth and rest in the space between them, accusatory. Harry’s gaze flicks between Draco’s face and the very familiar sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Where’d you find that?” asks Harry, in lieu of answering.

“Under your pillow. It doesn’t matter.” Draco’s mouth presses into a thin line, and a crease forms between his eyebrows. Harry feels a bit better; Draco’s uncertain, and he can work with that.

“It’s not what you think?”

Draco flips through the pages. “Number 106, Malfoy always uses blue ink. Number 43, Malfoy puts his right sock on first. Number 217, Draco makes wishes in the Hogsmeade fountain, and number 218, Draco thinks that sickles are the best coin to make wishes on.”

He looks up at Harry, and, once more, Harry can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He wants to say something, but his words seem to get stuck in his throat, not that he’d know what to say if they would come out.

Draco half-rises from the bed, putting one leg on the floor. “I’ll ask you again: what is this?”

“Er—”

“What. Is. _This?_ ” Draco hisses, shoving The List into Harry’s chest. He catches it before it can fall. “Some list of every stupid, embarrassing thing about me? So, what? You can make a fool of me in front of everyone, after I—I _trusted_ you. I thought—” He chokes, his nose scrunching up, eyes going a bit shiny. “I thought we were friends.”

He shoves past Harry, heading for the door. If he leaves, this is it. There’s only one thing that can— _might_ —save their friendship now.

Draco, forgive him.

“I love you,” Harry says. His hands fall to his sides, The List hanging against his thigh.

Draco halts, hand on the doorframe. The hallway beyond is thankfully empty. The line of Draco’s shoulders is ramrod-straight. After a second, he half-turns, and Harry can see the way the blood’s drained from his cheek.

Harry sees, more than hears, his “What?”

“I love you,” Harry repeats. He tosses The List aside. He doesn’t need it. “I love the way you laugh. I love how you always make the same move first when you play chess. I love how you dot your i’s with x’s, and you do your signature with a little squiggle at the end, like a snake. I love how you butter your toast. I love how you help me with my essays, and I love your mean jokes, and I love how hard you’re trying to change things for the better.

“I love you, Draco.”

Draco stands there in the doorway for so long, that Harry doesn’t know what to think. It feels like an eternity. At last, he steps back and shuts the door gently. He wraps his hands around his elbows, and Harry can see they’re shaking.

“I—” Harry swallows, and he can’t meet Draco’s eyes when he finally looks up. “I’ll get rid of the stupid list. I’m sorry.”

A sharp bark of laughter breaks the air. Draco turns his face into his shoulder. “Harry…” he whispers. Harry’s heart stutters as Draco crosses the room in three strides.

He takes Harry’s face between his hands and— _oh_.

Draco Malfoy kisses him like a man drowning. It’s desperate and sudden, and, yes, a little awkward. Their noses bump, and Draco laughs into his mouth as they kiss again and again.

His hair is soft when Harry twines a hand into it, and, as they stumble backwards and collapse onto Harry’s bed, the kiss turns slow and deep. When Harry slides a hand under Draco’s shirt, his skin is soft and warm.

After a few minutes, Draco pulls back. His hair is messier than Harry’s ever seen it, and his eyes are dark. “If you put any of this on that list, I’ll kill you,” he says breathlessly.

Harry laughs and pulls him back down. It’s a bit early, and a bit much, but Harry hopes that he’ll have a lifetime to gather all the little facts about Malfoy, every silly little thing that is both meaningless and important, and everything big, too.

Harry digs out The List, crumpled and forgotten, from underneath himself. He pulls out his wand and vanishes it without a second thought.

Who needs a list, when you have the real thing?


End file.
